


gentle respite

by carrionkid



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Nonbinary Character, Tenderness, The Hunter's Dream, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: the good hunter takes a much needed break from the hunt-They awoke without recollection of almost anything. They remember their ailments, now mostly healed as if by miracle, save for the ache deep in their bones and days where movement seems harder. They remember the circumstances of the healing, the strange creatures crowding around their bed, the coolness of the blood being transfused into them.They do not remember the place which they called home, now only knowing Yharnham as their resting place.They do not remember their name.They are called the Hunter. Sometimes even theGoodHunter, and they have no guiding light in this world.
Relationships: Plain Doll (Bloodborne)&The Hunter (Bloodborne)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	gentle respite

They awoke without recollection of almost anything. They remember their ailments, now mostly healed as if by miracle, save for the ache deep in their bones and days where movement seems  _ harder _ . They remember the circumstances of the healing, the strange creatures crowding around their bed, the coolness of the blood being transfused into them.

They do not remember the place which they called home, now only knowing Yharnham as their resting place.

They do not remember their name.

They are called the Hunter. Sometimes even the  _ Good  _ Hunter, and they have no guiding light in this world.

The closest they have come to a friend is the Doll, residing in the dreamlike world, the thinning between two places only reached when near death. They rarely see the Doll, but the Doll always awaits them with open arms.

Nameless things ought to stay together, after all.

The Hunter wakes in the dream once more, still choking on phantom blood, thick at the back of their throat, and a burning, ghostly ache creeping across their belly following the path along which they were gutted by a many clawed  _ beast _ . 

Perhaps, they should be dead. Perhaps they have already died a thousand times over.

The dream is a place beyond pain, beyond injury, a safe haven just slightly past oneself. The Hunter is not afraid of death, not if it's anything like this.

It hurts at first, yes, and the Hunter wishes the Doll could be by their side in the waking world, stroking their hair and wiping the blood from their brow. It isn’t fair that the Hunter can slip into the dream, but the Doll cannot meet them in the other world.

It  _ is  _ a world full of horrors, such a selfish act to bring such a beautiful thing to a place such as that, but a Hunter is a lonely thing to be. It is lonelier still when one is on the cusp of eternity.

The Doll helps them up, and were they not so tired, so weak, they would pause for a moment to remove their gloves and feel the cool weight of her porcelain fingers laced with theirs.

"Good Hunter," she says, her voice as soft and lyrical as ever, "The night is long."

"Too long," they mutter.

It is a night unending, one that feels as though it has been months. It is hard to remember when they came into this life and there is no simple way to track the passage of time. Wounds heal in an instant, leaving no scar, no lingering twinge, aside from the ones already familiar to the Hunter.

All they know is that they are  _ tired.  _ They would like to curl up and sleep in the dream, but they can rarely stay for long. There's work to be done under the cover of moonlight and there's little rest for Hunters.

It’s a sorry, blood drenched world out there. The Hunter can only hope their cure was worth the cost. They  _ are  _ cured, afterall. They live on, longer than ever expected, but  _ oh,  _ what a wretched life it is.

"Do not cry, Good Hunter," she wipes the tears from beneath their weary eyes with her fingertips.

They had not known they were crying until now. The body seems like an afterthought in the dream, warm and fuzzy, just at the edges of their mind.

They wonder if the Doll can feel their tears, the softness of their skin. It has been far too long since anyone has touched them without the intent to harm them. But the Doll has never approached them with anything other than kindness and care, perhaps even  _ love. _

She barely knows them, and yet she  _ loves  _ them. Although it isn't as though they know themself very well at all; the entirety of their life before the Hunt appears to be locked behind a pane of shrouded glass, just out of reach. If they think about it for any length of time, it  _ aches. _

"Your mind drifts," she says, pulling their cowl down with nimble fingers, cupping their cheek with a cool hand, "You must not worry here."

She stands far taller than the Hunter, but her presence alone calms them. There is so much left to be done, so much weight upon their shoulders, as bone-tired as they are.

It just feels like the most natural thing to do, collapsing against her chest, wrapping their arms around her waist and shutting their eyes tightly. It cannot hurt to rest for a short while.

The Doll gasps softly, "Are you injured, Good Hunter?"

They are not sure that is a possibility in the dream. None of their wounds have carried over before. But perhaps she does not  _ know  _ that; she does not bleed and when she cries, the teardrop appears as a gem.

They must be such a delicate thing to her, otherwise she would not treat them with such care.

" _ No _ ," they whisper; they reserve most of their preciously rare words for her, finding few others worth the cost of speaking with, "I tire of the Hunt." 

They feel a great shame admitting it. After all, this is their dues for their newfound health, this is the condition that allows them access to the dream, and by extension, allows them to see the Doll. But it's more than that. If  _ they  _ do not hunt, who  _ will? _

There is no certainty that another hunter would care for the innocents caught in this world as much as they do. It aches to imagine another taking on their duties; one that does not stop outside of every boarded up window to ensure the citizens inside are doing well.

They rarely speak, but they knock on the window and listen carefully. Most enjoy their presence, their scent giving them away as a hunter. They carry incense, too, when they can, and leave it on windowsills to ward off the beasts.

They cling easily to the Yharnham superstitions, despite being an outsider (or so they think). Enough people have said that they have a foreign air about them, that they must believe it. It was not their home, nor do many of its people care for them, but it has  _ chosen  _ them.

The Doll rubs their back gently, solid, steady fingers working in small circles. They hope none of the blood carried over with them; her dress is so lovely, handmade with the utmost of care, and it would be a shame to stain it.

With the memory of the blood comes the memory of the pain, itching away at them like ghostly fingers raking over their stomach. They can’t prevent themself from wincing, memory or not.

Perhaps, they are a coward. That would be the simplest explanation for why they want nothing more than to stay in the dream for an eternity, never venturing back out into their unfinished night.

"Oh, please," the Doll whispers, "Let me heal you, Good Hunter, let me tend to your wounds."

There are no wounds present upon them that she could heal, just those aching phantasms of injury calling them back to the moonlit night. The deep, aching cut, splitting them in two, is not a physical one. 

But, perhaps, the importance rests in the act, rather than the outcome.

The Hunter makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, hoping that the Doll can discern its meaning. She understands them far better than anyone else they have encountered; many mistake their silence as gruffness, or a lack of interest.

She releases them, leaving them to stand on their own while she digs through the carefully embroidered bag resting on her hip. Even now, her face remains perfect, composed, a mask of herself. She is beautiful, made ever so carefully, but it makes the Hunter's heart  _ ache _ knowing that she could never furrow her brow, that there will never be smile lines creased into her porcelain cheeks.

"Ah," she says, holding a blood vial between her fingers as though she might break it, "I knew it was here."

Usually, they inject it into their leg, through the worn cloth of their trousers, but that feels demeaning for a situation such as this. So, they shrug out of one sleeve of their jacket, still leaving the other sleeve on out of habit, a gnawing fear that they must  _ run _ ,  _ run until their lungs give out,  _ at any moment. 

The Doll watches them, head cocked slightly, with a quizzical glint in her eye. They bow their head, evading her gaze as they roll up their sleeve, exposing more skin than they have in a long time.

Then, they present their arm to her.

She reaches out, stopping just shy of their wrist, as if she were reconsidering her offer. They extend their arm just a little further, not forcing it into her hand but merely repeating the invitation. 

The Doll loops her fingers around their wrist, her thumb resting against the pulse point, cool and gentle. She hands them the blood vial, a welcome weight in their free hand.

After that, she turns their arm from side to side, tracing her index finger over the veins running up their arm. It does not  _ hurt,  _ but it is an unfamiliar sensation, one that almost makes them want to pull away. They could not bear to see her upset, so they remain still.

"Oh, how the blood flows through you, Good Hunter," she marvels, "Your heart beats with such dedication."

She has such a light touch, one that borders on uncomfortable, but they cannot find the means to tell her as much. The Doll holds one of their arms and they are clutching the blood vial as though it were a lifeline; it is not as though they could reach for the notebook deep in the pockets of their coat and spell it out for her. 

(Besides, doing so may break the strange energy surrounding the two of them.)

"What troubles you?" She asks, ever attentive.

They worry their lip with their teeth, humming lowly, "Firmer. … _ Please." _

She nods, tightening her grip on their wrist. Finally, they allow their shoulders to sag, no longer wound up in knots of tension. It is easiest to unwind around the Doll; they trust her more than anyone else, not solely because they are one and the same.

They still hold the vial steady for her, even as she draws out about half of its contents. There is a slight twinge of guilt deep within their chest. Blood vials are precious things in this life and here they go, using one for something as frivolous as healing non-existent wounds.

But the Doll is so gentle, even when she is following their wishes for a firmer touch. They would hate to disappoint her.

"Be brave, Good Hunter. It will only be a pin-prick."

They are awfully tired of being brave. But if she asks it of them… 

Well, they have to oblige, do they not?

She injects the blood smoothly, finding a vein at the crook of their arm with ease. The coolness of it flows up through their arm, making their eyelids heavy. The blood takes on a strange quality here and soon, they will wake up back in the unending night. 

They hand the vial back to the Doll and she smiles for them once again, "You are better, yes?"

They nod. It could be the blood, or it could be the moments of respite from a offal splattered world. It could even be simply because of  _ her. _

Whatever it is, their head feels clearer. 

The Good Hunter rolls down their sleeve and slips their jacket back on, straightening it out and checking out of habit that they still have all their belongings.

"Goodbye, dear Hunter," the Doll folds her hands, eyes cast down to her boots, "May you find your worth in the waking world."

With a blink of an eye, they are back at a soft, flickering lantern in a quiet corner of Yharnham, shirt torn nearly in two and still wet with their blood.


End file.
